We spent the next twenty minutes or so sitting against the plaster wall, trading lazy kisses and talking in low voices about nothing in particular.
Eventually, the talking faded out. The sheer exhaustion of Aleksey’s schedule caught up with him, and his head dropped onto my shoulder. A minute later, his breathing leveled out. He was completely out, his solid body resting against my side.
For a second, I thought about shaking him awake and heading back to my own room. But instead, I carefully leaned forward and tapped his phone screen where it sat on the floor.
His lock screen still showed an alarm set for eleven-thirty, about five minutes from now. I swiped the alarm off, pulled out my own phone, and set a silent vibrate timer, making a mental note to wake Aleksey up in ten minutes’ time.
Sliding my phone back into my pocket, I didn’t move a muscle. I just sat there, listening to Aleksey’s breathing and the radiator tick.
Chapter 14 - Aleksey
My shoulder slammed into the opposing center’s ribs with a loud, satisfying crack that echoed over the roaring crowd.
It was the third period against Michigan.
The arena was loud enough to rattle my teeth; the noise vibrating right up through my skates. It was exactly what I needed to drown out the stress in my head.
On the ice, all that background noise stopped. Things got simple: read the play and make them regret stepping into our zone.
Perez scooped up the puck on a fast transition up the ice. “Keep the lane clear!” he yelled as he crossed the blue line.
I drove my shoulder into the trailing defenseman, pinning him against the boards to give Perez space. To the fans in the stands, every aggressive check from me looked like standard hockey violence, but every impact was calculated.
I wasn’t just hitting to hit; I was clearing space and proving my discipline to the NHC scouts sitting up in the dark.
Perez took the shot, but it bounced hard off the goalie’s pads. Karter found the rebound in the slot and buried it in the net for his second goal of the night.
As the red light flashed above the glass, our guys rushed him. He skated a tight circle, his arms raised while the student section went insane. Hanging back near the blue line, I stayed out of the pileup, letting my lungs burn and catching my breath.
Then Karter broke away from the group hug. Sweat dripped down his face under the rim of his helmet. His eyes locked onto mine through his visor from across the rink.
He didn’t look away. He held it.
It stretched out a fraction too long, sending a stupid thrill shooting straight through my veins. This was dangerous, but looking away felt impossible. It was a massive risk to stare at each other like that in the middle of the ice. But for a split second, I just didn’t give a shit who saw.
Elliot skated over into Karter’s line of sight. Grabbing his younger brother by the back of the jersey, the captain gave a sharp yank that pulled the freshman back toward the team huddle. The move snapped my attention violently back to reality.
“Keep your head in the game, Karter!” Elliot barked.
The roaring fans drowned out the rest of his words, but when Elliot turned and shot me a glare, it was the kind of look that promised consequences.
I knew what that look meant. To him, it looked like I was just trying to rattle his precious younger brother.
Grinding my teeth together, I swallowed down irritation. Being treated like a thug always pissed me off, but it was the role that fit.
Shrugging, I returned Elliot’s evil eye, finished out my shift, and skated to the bench for a line change, dropping heavily onto the wooden seat.
Perez sat down next to me. He watched me for a long beat and then shook his head. But he didn’t say another word, returning his attention to the rink, bouncing his leg as he sat.
The final buzzer blared ten minutes later to seal our win.
The locker room was a zoo after that. The legacy guys blasted music and took up all the oxygen in the center of the room. I kept my head down in the corner with a couple of scholarshipguys, focusing on getting my skates off. The adrenaline of the game was already fading, leaving behind the ache of every hit I gave out on the ice. I took a quick, scalding shower, threw on my hoodie and thin jeans, and grabbed my bag.
The concrete hallway outside the locker room reeked of old gear. And the cheap overhead lights glared hard against the walls, making my post-game headache worse. I hoisted my duffel bag higher on my shoulder and headed for the exit.
A man stepped into my path who looked out of place in the grimy arena basement. He wore a tailored dark topcoat, expensive shoes, and a sharp haircut.
“Zotov. Got a minute?” he asked.
